


Indigo

by okapi



Series: Clothes Make the Woman [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Episode: The Abominable Bride, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Femlock, Gen or Pre-Slash, Gender or Sex Swap, dressing gown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:04:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a belated birthday gift from John. Inspired by the blue dressing gown from "The Abominable Bride."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indigo

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit) for the beta.

In a flash of blue and gold, the knot that had been tightening around Sherlock’s throat slackened. She released one lungful of air, then a second.

John was not abandoning Baker Street.

Amassing funds quickly, however, _had_ been the driving force behind John’s frenzied schedule of late. Since early December, she had sought work at, or so it seemed to Sherlock, every surgery that employed locum doctors. She had worked every day, criss-crossing the city, returning to the flat only to change clothing and wish Sherlock weary compliments of the season.

They had both been spared the embarrassment of John begging off cases, because there were none. Christmas was a notoriously slow time for the criminal classes. With present-day crimes of interest not forthcoming, Sherlock had been forced to retreat into the annals of history and was now applying her mental faculties to the mysterious death of Emelia Ricoletti in 1895.

Though the Case of the Abominable Bride— Sherlock’s indulgence in a bit of florid Watsonian nomenclature was expediency, _not_ sentiment—had several features of interest, John’s behaviour was never far from her thoughts. After discrete enquiries disproved theory after theory, Sherlock was left to conclude that John was saving money in order to change domiciles, to abandon Baker Street, which was, of course, to abandon Sherlock. The notion had no root in fact or logic and yet it lingered and, even more fancifully, seemed to coil round Sherlock like an aged, but determined, python. The previous week, she had been practically immobilised awaiting the announcement, but the new year had arrived with no halt to John’s campaign. Out with the old, etcetera, had proved, like most adages, to be false.

Now Sherlock knew the truth.

Tissue paper rustled as she lifted the dressing gown from the box and unfurled it. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers. It was blend of soft cashmere and a warmer, heavier wool. She drew it closer, breathing in the faint sandalwood fragrance that still clung to the fibres. The fabric had been dyed using an exceedingly pure and concentrated natural extract. It was a deep, rich blue colour, with gold braid trim, shawl collar, and tasselled belt.

Sherlock glanced at John. She had grown thinner on a diet of strong coffee and stale biscuits; the former had left multiple stains on the cuff of her right sleeve and the latter, a tiny pile of crumbs on the floor beneath her jacket. The bags beneath her eyes were darker and heavier and the creases in her forehead more pronounced, but as she watched Sherlock, all traces of fatigue receded, and her expression became bright and expectant.

She was waiting.

What to say? It was, in a word,

“Magnificent. Thank you.”

John exhaled so loudly that it startled Sherlock, and she suddenly realised that all this time they had both been gasping for air.

“Late for Christmas and for your, um….” John looked away and rubbed the back of her head. “The shop was closed yesterday for some reason.”

Ah. The final piece of the puzzle fell into place: the visit to Mycroft.

It had been voluntary on John’s part and puzzlingly short, that is to say, not long enough for John to be tempted by the top-shelf, jasmine-scented Earl Grey that would have surely been on offer. How charming that John had sought out a relation in order to enquire as to Sherlock’s birthdate, and not, for example, scoured Sherlock’s personal belongings for birth records within forty-eight hours of meeting!

“Quite by chance, I saw it through a dingy window, you know, one of those curios shops, bric-a-brac of the Empire and whatnot, and I, well, not to be too sentimental, fell in love. It reminded me of you.”

Sherlock quickly raised the dressing gown and made a show of examining it. “I fear you have failed in being too sentimental,” she remarked, her flushed face hidden behind the blue curtain. When the heat in her cheeks faded, she lowered the garment and added matter-of-factly, “But in taste, you’ve outdone yourself, my dear Watson.”

John laughed. “Still at the Ricoletti case, then?”

“Your powers of observation are astounding! What gave it away?”

“The last name business and, of course, the fancy dress.”

Out of boredom, Sherlock had taken to making herself up like a Victorian gentleman while she pondered the fate of the Abominable Bride. She did love to be dramatic, and what was spectacle without wardrobe? The theatre was only Sherlock’s own mind, though. She never left the flat.

“Shall I try it on?”

“Absolutely.”

They both got to their feet.

Sherlock pulled on the dressing gown. It fitted perfectly. She turned to the side and struck an imperial pose.

John clapped her hands together and laughed. “You look…”

“Magnificent?”

John nodded. “You cut quite the figure, what with the waistcoat and the bow-tie, watch-chain, boots. And the hair.” Sherlock’s normally unruly mane was slicked back wet and pinned into a tight bun at the base of her neck.

Sherlock did a full turn, looking down, smoothing her hands over the fabric. She struggled to find the precise words. “It is as if…”

“…you’ve always owned it?”

“Yes.”

“I know! I had the same feeling when I saw it.” John collected the empty box. As she turned and carried it to the kitchen, something small and white fluttered to the floor. “Maybe it was yours in a past life.”

Sherlock huffed. “My interest in this one-hundred-twenty-year-old case has wheedled into your subconscious.” She quickly retrieved the card from the floor and sat back in her armchair.

“Kama Sutra Antiques and Collectibles, Your Gateway to the Orient,” she read.

“What?” John strode back into the room and took the card from Sherlock’s hand. “Huh. It didn’t have a sign. Well, it wasn’t a sex shop. Lots of dirty lamps and dusty carpets.” She handed the card back to Sherlock, who slipped it into the pocket of the gown. “There might have been a suggestive statuette or carving, but I only had eyes for the gown. Hey, maybe it’s magic! Do you think it will transport you to Xanadu?”

“Xanadu was China, not India, John.”

“I know. Three Continents, remember?” said John wryly.

Sherlock did remember, but she did not like to be reminded of John’s long, and no doubt colourful, sexual history. She was forming a biting retort when a word inserted itself into her thoughts.

“Indigo.”

“Hmm?”

“The blue dye.”

“Yeah, gorgeous, eh?”

“Indeed.”

John’s shoulders rose and fell as she sighed. “Well, happy belated birthday, or I suppose it could be an early gift for, well, no…”

No. Relationships were _not_ Sherlock’s area, but even she knew that platonic flatmates did not gift each other garments valuing three weeks’ wages for St. Valentine’s Day.

John failed to stifle a yawn.

“Rest,” whispered Sherlock.

“Yeah, I’m a bit knackered.”

Hyperbole and understatement, John Watson in a nutshell.

“Good night, Watson,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow and dropping her voice to a masculine rumble.

“G’night, Holmes,” replied John cheerily, tipping her non-existent hat and heading for the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
